DANCING AT DEATH'S DOOR
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: They thought it had been a successful hunt.  Until Dean drops.  Now Sam must do everything necessary to save his brother's life while a painful poison courses through Dean's body.  Sick!Dean, Caring!Sam  Rate K Plus for a bit of language.


Dedicated to LaedieDuske—because I know how much she loves stories that involve belly touching in any way, shape, or form.

Also dedicated to sidjack, PADavis, Mad Server, and Enkidu07 for all of the lovely belated birthday fics they posted for me yesterday. I felt so honored. This is another way for me to say thank you.

Disclaimer: Doggone it. No matter how much I beg, they all tell me no, so I own nothing related to Supernatural. I just had to take the boys out for a little spin.

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><p><strong>Dancing at Death's Door<strong>

**By: Vanessa Sgroi**

The first whisper of a cramp slithered across Dean's belly before he was five feet away from the smoldering body of the Wargar laying in the dry, prickly meadow grass. It was so inconsequential, he didn't even flinch. Ten steps later they suddenly became so vicious he stumbled and sank to his knees in the dirt, clutching his stomach. "Nnggg!"

"Dean!" Sam, who had been ambling several steps behind him, rushed forward and dropped to one knee. "Dean, what's goin' on, man?"

The older Winchester shook his head. "I-I-I dunno," he gasped. A strong wind kicked up, setting the dry grass to thrashing. Dean groaned through another ripple of pain.

"Did it bite you?"

When there was no response, Sam grabbed his brother's shoulder and shook him slightly. "Dean, did it bite you?"

Dean's brow furled. "N-n-no. D-don't think so." He shuddered beneath Sam's touch.

"C'mon, we need to get you back to the Impala." Adjusting the duffel bag he was carrying, Sam slipped his hands under Dean's arms and hauled him to his feet, pulling him close when Dean's knees threatened to give out again. The younger man grabbed a hold of a belt loop on the back of his brother's jeans and gathered a fistful of his jacket and together they began their laborious journey across the remaining field and through the woods.

By the time they reached the spot where the Impala sat idle and waiting, midnight paint shining in the first blush of moonlight, Sam was practically carrying his brother. Panting, Sam leaned Dean up against the car, keeping him in place with his body as he yanked open the passenger side door. With no little effort, he maneuvered Dean into the front seat. Blinking stinging sweat from his eyes, Sam quickly located the car keys and liberated them from Dean's pocket. He quickly stowed their gear in the trunk before jogging to the driver's side. Jamming the key into the ignition, Sam started the car, shoved it into gear, and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, taking off for the motel. The fact that Dean didn't once complain filled him with dread.

Taking his eyes off the road long enough to glance at his brother, Sam saw Dean bent in half over his knees. Soft moans keened from between clenched teeth.

"S'm?" moaned Dean. "S'mmyy?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"H-h-hurts. H-hurts…b-b-bad."

Sam reached over and gripped his brother's knee, noting the trembling beneath his fingers. His grip tightened. "I know, bro. I know. We're almost at the motel. We'll fix it. I promise. I'LL fix it." The young hunter kept up the babble of reassurances all the way back to the motel.

Turning into the parking lot, Sam, eternally grateful for the scarcity of other guests, pulled into a space directly in front of their room. He awkwardly hoisted Dean from the depths of the car and together they lurched and swayed and stumbled toward the room. Once inside, Sam lowered Dean down on his bed. His brother immediately went prone and drew his knees upward, curling into a fetal position. After quickly shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on the questionable carpet, Sam bent over the bed. "C'mon, Dean, we need to get you out of these clothes."

"Mmmnnngg." Dean curled tighter as another cramp ripped through his belly.

"Come on, bro," Sam coaxed as he worked to straighten Dean's limbs. "I need to see if you got bit." Helping Dean sit up, Sam was able to work him out of his jacket and his long-sleeved blue over shirt. He worked the gray t-shirt over Dean's head, and it joined the growing pile on the floor. Sam tugged off his brother's boots then his socks, dropping them to the floor. Last came Dean's jeans, which wasn't easy considering Dean's instinctive attempts to grab at his stomach and struggle to curl back into a ball. Once his brother was down to his navy boxer briefs, Sam examined him from head to toe but found no evidence of a bite. He could, however, actually see every cramp that hit Dean. The muscles of his belly pulsed and rippled with each cramp. Sam bit back nausea watching this display. Perplexed, he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Bobby Singer.

By way of greeting Bobby growled, _"This better be good. It's the middle of the damn night."_

"It's Sam. Bobby, I need your help."

"_What is it, boy?"_

"We…we were hunting a Wargar. We got it—ganked it. But Dean…Dean's sick."

"_He get bit?"_

"No. Not that I can see."

"_Well, shit. All right. I got a couple-a places I can look to see what might be goin' on. Lemme call you back."_

When the phone rang a half hour later, Sam was sitting next to his brother, Dean's forehead pressed into his thigh as he thrashed and writhed on the bed. Sam's hand was carded through his damp, spiky hair. Hearing the first bars of Bobby's ringtone, Sam immediately hit the button and brought the phone to his ear.

"Bobby, tell me you've got something. He's not doin' good."

"_This is damned obscure and I can only find mentioned once, Sam, but it's not actually the bite that kills according to this one book. It's the saliva. Ask Dean if it licked him."_

Sam lowered the cell phone and turned his attention to his brother. He tapped his cheek. "Dean? Dean, did the Wargar lick you?"

Dean lifted his head, blinked heavily at Sam, his brow wrinkled in confusion as he thought back. "I-I dunno. Don't r'memba." His breath hitched and his arms tightened around his abdomen.

"Bobby, he doesn't know."

"_Well, check him over again. Apparently, the Wargar's tongue has tiny protrusions that are like razor blades. Kinda like human tastebuds. Check for a raw patch of skin."_

Sam did as Bobby instructed and found a small red raw-looking patch of skin on the back of Dean's neck. "Got it! Bobby, I got it. On the back of his neck. But it—it doesn't even look like much."

"_Apparently, it don't matter. It was enough to introduce the poison to his system."_

"So what do we do?"

"_There's a tincture you can make. Consider it to be like a supernatural Syrup of Ipecac. I'll warn ya now, son, the hard part'll be getting him to drink it. All of it. He ain't gonna like it and it's gonna hurt."_

The younger Winchester ran a hand down his face. "Great."

"_Says here that the reaction will be immediate and it's gonna make the boy hurl like there's no tomorrow as his body purges the poison. But that's not the least of it. You're gonna have to help the process along, Sam. You're gonna have to push hard on his stomach each time he pukes. Sort of like a Heimlich maneuver."_

Sam's fingers tightened against Dean's scalp as he contemplated what he had to do. "All right. How will I know when to stop."

"_You'll know."_

"Okay. Tell me what I need."

(SPN) (SPN) (SPN)

Sam reluctantly left Dean long enough to gather the supplies he needed. When he returned, he checked on his brother, noting his increasing pallor and hitched breathing. Following Bobby's instructions, Sam carefully mixed the holy water, extracts, herbs, and trace minerals for the Singer-defined supernatural Syrup of Ipecac. After combining the ingredients well, he left the tincture sit for the required 15 minutes before pouring the cloudy-looking, viscous liquid all into a glass. It looked thoroughly disgusting. Approaching the bed, Sam eased down next to Dean.

"Okay, bro, let's get you fixed up." As he spoke, he helped Dean straighten and partially sit. Before forcing Dean to drink, he grabbed the nearby trash can. "I need you to drink this, okay?" Sam held the glass to Dean's lips.

Dean sipped, swallowed, and immediately choked. "T-tastes l-like ass. Worse than th-that stuff the h-h-hell-bitch force-fed me that one t-t-time."

"I know it sucks, bro. But you have to drink."

Dean attempted to drink again but his gag reflex was working overtime. He gagged and turned his head. "C-can't."

"You can." Frustrated and growing increasing worried, Sam grabbed Dean's chin, forcing his head around. "Dean, c'mon. You have to. Please."

Pupils blown with confusion and pain, the elder hunter reluctantly opened his mouth and drank, gulping half the vile liquid. As Bobby had warned, the reaction was fairly immediate. Dean's eyes widened with alarm as fire raced through his gut. He lurched to the side and began to puke into the waiting can.

Sam hurriedly dropped the glass onto the small table by the bed. As Dean heaved, Sam reached over and pressed hard on his stomach. Dean retched harder and he groaned, tried to push Sam's hand away. With his free hand, he grabbed the glass once more and held it to Dean's mouth. "Again, Dean. Drink the rest." When Dean resisted, Sam hardened his voice. "Drink it, Dean. Now!" he ordered.

Dean finally complied and managed—barely—to swallow the rest of the murky liquid. Alternately coughing and gagging as it went down.

His brother's whole body convulsed as geysers of dark ichor poured from his mouth. The harder Dean heaved, the harder Sam pushed on his stomach. The rock hard muscles there rippled and twisted relentlessly beneath Sam's hand. In between the bouts, Sam rubbed circles on Dean's belly in a desperate, though sadly ineffectual, attempt to ease the pain.

As the purge continued unabated, Dean's groans turned into pitiful keening whimpers. A mixture of sweat and tears rolled down Dean's pale face. He pushed at Sam's arm. "S-s-s-sstop. S'mmy, p-please," he begged, "p-p-please s-stop."

"I can't, Dean." Sam felt crushed having to say those words. "I can't stop until the poison's gone. I'm sorry." Feeling his brother's stomach muscles harden and clench preparing for another wave, Sam pressed—hard. Harder than he had anytime before.

Dean cried out hopelessly as another foaming gush of black ichor spewed into the trash can. This time though, a thicker, more gelatinous mass eventually exploded from his mouth and landed in the mess in the can.

Sam risked a glance and spied the black mass. It pulsed wildly several times then stilled. He bit his lip and scowled in disgust. Setting the trash can back on the floor, Sam turned back and assessed his brother who was leaning weakly against him. With that final heave, the retching had abruptly stopped. Dean was breathing heavily and his eyelids were fluttering as utter exhaustion washed over him. Sam gently eased him down on the bed.

"'s over?" slurred Dean.

"Yeah Dean, it's over." Relief overwhelmed him, left him dizzy.

Sam stood and staggered to the bathroom. After wetting a washcloth, he returned to Dean's side and wiped it across his brother's face, cleaning him up a little and smoothing away the remnants of distress. He quickly skimmed it across his chest and abdomen.

Tossing aside the used cloth, he said, "You want rinse out your mouth?"

Dean swallowed, grimaced, and nodded. "Yeah."

Sam grabbed a flask of holy water and helped Dean rinse his mouth and spit into the befouled trash can. He helped him lay down again then grabbed the blanket to cover him, pausing only to look hard at Dean's stomach half expecting to see hand-shaped bruises manifesting there. Dean's eyes closed and his breathing deepened as Sam finished pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.

"S'mmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," he sighed as he slipped into sleep.

Sam ghosted a palm over his brother's forehead. "You're welcome."

After cleaning up the disgusting mess in the trash can, Sam made a call to Bobby and gave him a quick rundown of what had happened. With that done, he stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers and fell into his own bed, numb with exhaustion now that the adrenaline had worn off. He turned his head and watched his brother for a few moments. He was still milk white and looked wholly drained but was at least sleeping peacefully. _Another close call, dammit._ Sam's own breath hitched for a moment at the thought.

Dawn was just peeping over the horizon as his eyes finally fluttered shut and he drifted off to sleep, serenaded by the reassuringly deep and measured breaths coming from his brother.

_**FIN**_


End file.
